A Desirable Property

by Nicole Dere

  ‘Please, for security,’ was all he said as he leaned in closer and slipped a black eye mask over my head, condemning me to darkness. At once I recalled the weird game played at the palace, when the four of us girls had been blindfolded and screwed, and I had distinguished myself by being the only one to guess who my partner had been.

  Oddly enough, being deprived of sight was curiously calming. I sank back, giving myself up to the helplessness of my position. I felt firm hands touching me, lifting me slightly and slipping a broad canvas strap between my thighs, clipping it to a belt around my hips. It chafed against my sensitive skin as the motor coughed, and then clattered and roared into life. My belly hollowed, seemed to fall away, and I knew we were airborne. I leant back, trembling, my mind incapable of any constructive thought.

  I don’t know how long I remained thus, before I felt strong fingers pressing on the buckle at my tummy, releasing me from the harness, and then easing me from my seat. We were flying on an even keel, and I was placed in a kneeling position across the bucket seat, raising my hips. Was I going to be screwed me in mid-air, on the way to wherever it was I was going?

  The hands felt rough, and I assumed they had to belong to the figure who had been sitting behind me. They cradled my breasts, stroked my nipples until they became erect, tingling with sensation. His lips touched my neck, lifting the thick red hair to plant light kisses on my skin that made me shiver, and stirred those pulses of desire I could not deny. He turned my head, his tongue probing into my mouth, which opened obediently, and then I felt his weight enveloping me, felt the solid girth of his belly resting on my lower back.

  The fingers ferreted between my thighs, explored the cleft of my behind, and found the moistening lips of my labia. They parted the slick tissue, opening me, and relentlessly arousing me until I was gasping with need and my bottom was thrusting back against his bulk, begging for satisfaction.

  ‘Please,’ I sobbed, and felt the tears soaking the material padded against my eyes. Still the fingers probed. I felt one insert itself into the entrance of my vagina, and slide slowly inward, claiming the narrow sheath that hugged it hungrily. I was whimpering now, my head hanging low, twisting from side to side, and pleading for him to go on.

  Just when I was sure I could stand it no more and was ready to plunge over the chasm of my climax, the finger withdrew. Those sturdy hands pressed at my thighs, inching them wider apart, and at last came the blessed touch of his cock, the slippery helm of an erect penis nudging into my tight flesh. Its entry into me was slow, controlled, until my whole writhing frame was a mass of quivering hunger. The joy was almost too great to endure. My bottom lifted and thrust back against that driving force, and I cried at the burst of my coming, on and on, wave after wave until I slumped exhausted, absorbing his piston-like lunges to my very centre until he too was spent.

  I crouched there, sobbing, curled under his bulk while he rested in me, slowly shrinking out of me. I could not move – I did not want to move.

  ‘Welcome aboard,’ a deep, familiar voice growled close to my ear. The blindfold was taken off and there was Koloba’s grinning face next to my own, my eyes confirming what my body already knew.

  Then I gasped again in genuine wonder, for there, through the glass against which my sweating features and pale body were pressed, lay a breathtaking panorama of Leontondo’s capital, its green clad hills and splendid buildings and, in the far distance, the shimmering surface, aflame with the late sun, of the Great Lake, where our adventure had begun.

  Chapter 18

  ‘Doesn’t she look sexy, Kamau?’ The helicopter pilot, who had shown remarkable discipline in keeping his eyes fixed firmly ahead while his president had been sporting over his shoulder with a naked white female, now permitted himself a swift glance in my direction. He nodded and smiled, and paradoxically, I felt myself blushing, now that I was, for the first time in many months, fully clothed. True, what I was wearing was not quite what I would have chosen for myself, but after a short period when I sat beside the president while we flew in a breathtaking tour over the capital, he had delved into a bag beneath his seat, produced a bundle, and thrust it in my lap with orders for me to get dressed right away.

  It didn’t take long for me to obey. In the bag I discovered a camouflage suit of baggy trousers and jacket, a pair of black canvas shoes, and a floppy brimmed, olive bush hat. There were no undies. The suit swamped me and the plimsolls were too big, but at least it was clothing. It was strange to feel the cloth on my skin after all this time, and to have my body hidden from view.

  ‘You look like a boy soldier,’ the president chortled. Not quite, I thought, as my long hair tumbled about my shoulders from beneath the floppy hat, but I didn’t argue. I was still dazed by all that had happened to me within the last hour or so, and from the novelty of no longer being naked. The horizon to the east was already darkening, and we left the lights of the twinkling city below as we swung away towards the blaze of sunset over the lake. In a few minutes we were descending rapidly, and I thought I recognised the shape of the palace where the president had ‘entertained’ Jane and me and the other two girls – months before, I reflected.

  But this was an altogether different arrival. We touched down on the front lawn, before the shallow curve of white steps that led to the imposing entrance. There was a small delegation of black figures waiting to greet us, and Koloba himself helped me down from the helicopter, and then held my hand as he led me inside and introduced me to a smartly dressed entourage, some in military uniforms and some – the palace staff, I later discovered – in civilian clothes.

  ‘This is Mrs Kinsella,’ he told them. ‘She is to be our guest for a few days.’ Mrs Kinsella, and his guest? My brain reeled. It was a dream from which I dreaded waking.

  But it was not a dream. Koloba held my hand, guiding me over the polished floor of the grand hall, and up the wide red-carpeted staircase. Minutes later I was standing in a magnificently appointed bedroom, and a pretty girl in a maid’s outfit of black dress and white apron, including the saucy scrap of white lace pinned to her curly head, was bobbing respectfully before me.

  ‘This is Awina,’ the president told me. ‘She will look after you. She will get you anything you want. Relax now, and have a bath. You will find clothes in the wardrobe. I hope they are your size. I think they are. Dinner is at eight. It will be with just a few friends, nothing formal. I will send someone to fetch you for drinks in a couple of hours. Now, make yourself at home.’

  I stared after him. There was so much I wanted to ask, but my brain just would not function clearly.

  ‘Shall I run your bath, memsa’ab?’ the pretty maid asked me.

  I blinked at the girl. ‘Erm – yes, please, Awina,’ I mumbled, unable to believe I was being waited on. I had been treated like a slave for months, and now here I was giving someone instructions to draw me a bath! I was possessed by an overwhelming sense of unreality.

  My maid gave me a dazzling smile and headed for an adjoining door, through which I saw a bathroom as resplendent as the one where the president had frolicked with Jane and me. Utterly confused, not entirely certain I was not dreaming, I slipped off the unflattering clothes and wandered after the maid. The poor girl’s eyes widened and she looked embarrassed when she saw my naked body, but she said nothing, merely turned quickly to busy herself with the fragrant foam in the large tub.

  ‘It is ready, memsa’ab,’ she said. ‘You want me to stay with you?’

  ‘Yes please, stay and talk to me.’ I felt I needed her there, to help me cling to some semblance of reality.

  It was hard, though, and the same dreamlike quality enveloped me when I surveyed the silk underwear in the drawers, and the blouses, skirts, and dresses hanging in abundance in the vast wardrobe. I studied myself in the full length mirrors with a new awareness, let the fluffy white towel fall at my feet, titillated by the shy, surreptitious stares of Awina. Then I chose a matching set of bra and French knickers of a tasteful deep ivory
and made of a fine satin that felt soft as a caress, and a dress of elegant simplicity that hugged my curves tastefully and reached only to mid-thigh.

  When the president returned, his eyes conveyed the same message of lust I had seen before, though this time he disguised it with a gallantry of behaviour that added strongly to my sense of disbelief and unreality. What is more, his attention never wavered from me despite the presence of several other women, all African, some of quite outstanding beauty and sophistication. True, they all had male escorts, though I was sure that would be no deterrent to the president if he wished to pursue matters with one of them.

  All of this could not be happening! I kept recalling our previous visit to the palace, and how utterly slavish our status and treatment had been then. Now, perfumed and dressed in the finest clothes, I sat at an elegant table where I was waited upon, and wined and dined as an honoured guest, at the right hand of the president himself.

  The president who, some hours later, came to my bedroom and made love to me. Made love! As though I was a person in my own right, not some sex slave whose only worth lay in being there for the taking whenever he chose.

  I wondered why all this was happening, and sobbed like a child when he held me tenderly in the darkness, as tenderly as the lover into which he had miraculously transformed himself.

  He was still in my bed the next morning. His large hands were touching me with astounding gentleness and skill, even as I awoke, my blood already racing with the need he created in me, and satisfied. Once more his great bulk descended on me, his potency spearing me to a swift and tumultuous climax. Only then did I feel the crushing weight of him, the broad plane of his back on which my hands rested, the stout thighs where my heels lay. He groaned, levered himself off me, the bed sinking as he rolled off me to lie by my side.

  ‘Hmmm,’ he growled with satisfaction, ‘you are very good, very good, you know. I will miss you terribly. Will you not come and be my wife number three?’

  ‘I’m already married,’ I answered, my voice trembling, not really capturing the strength of tone I was after. I hesitated, not sure I wanted to ask the question that begged to be asked. The words almost stuck in my throat. ‘W-why, Mr President… where am I going?’

  He looked amused, his eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘You are going home, of course,’ he answered simply. ‘In a few days from now, you will be free. And what will you tell the world about me, I wonder?’

  My heart hammered and now I could scarcely get my breath. All at once I knew the full significance of his question. With an intuitive leap, I understood why I had been brought to the palace. I said, as calmly as I could, ‘But what about the others? What is going to happen to them?’ My voice shook a little, but I forced myself to ask, ‘Are they also going to be released?’

  Now it was his turn to pause briefly, and it was a pause I was all too conscious of. ‘Of course, my dear,’ he said, his voice rich and deep. ‘You will all go free. At least, I sincerely hope so. Though the thought of losing you makes me almost wish I could hold you here forever.’ And once more he gathered me into his bulk, his lips seeking mine. Tensely I waited, those qualifying words of his, ‘I sincerely hope so’, echoing in my head. There was some sort of bargain to be struck, I was sure of that. What was it he wanted of me?

  He was clearly in no hurry to pursue his plan, and as for me, I was still too timid and bemused by the dramatic change in my fortune to try to push things along, as much as part of me wanted to.

  I had another leisurely soak in fragrant suds after he left me. Awina brought in a breakfast tray. I sat at a small table set in front of the tall windows where the warm morning sun poured over me, and I could see the brilliant green of the lawn, the foliage of carefully landscaped trees, and beyond it, the distant hazy shimmer of the lake. It wasn’t until Awina hurried forward, the half veiled shock evident in her expression, that I realised I had sat down naked. She slipped the creamy satin robe about my shoulders and I covered myself, tying the sash tightly at my waist. ‘Thanks,’ I smiled at her. ‘I’ve been so used to going around naked for so long, I forgot myself.’

  The president had told me we would be going on another helicopter journey, over some of the huge game reserves, so after the meal, with Awina’s help, I chose an impeccable safari suit of pale linen. The slacks, with their knife-edge creases, hugged my slender frame quite alluringly, I thought, and again I marvelled at how accurately the measurements of my newly acquired wardrobe had been chosen. The short-sleeved jacket’s belted waist also emphasised my slenderness.

  I was surprised to find that that no guards were to accompany us, only his pilot, Kamau, who had witnessed our lewd congress in the skies over the city. Once more I felt myself blushing at his polite smile and greeting when we climbed aboard. This time there was to be no repeat of such indecorous behaviour, however. After a fascinating low-level flight picking out and tracking many species of big game, we landed at a remote spot to picnic from the excellent lunch basket provided for us. There was even chilled wine and iced beer included in the gourmet repast. And then I spied a familiar expression spreading across the president’s shining face.

  ‘Keep a watch, Kamau,’ he said to his pilot. ‘I do not want a rhino’s horn up my bottom!’ And he grabbed my hand, and led me off out of sight through the dead-looking thorn scrub behind a big red anthill. ‘Let’s jig-a-jig, my little red malaya.’ He smiled fondly down at me.

  Malaya. Prostitute. The idea excited me; better a prostitute than a slave, I told myself. Prostitutes are paid for what they do. What would my payment be? Freedom? Then I suddenly felt an unexpected lurch of real trepidation. Was I ready for the world that was waiting to claim me again? Suddenly I was swamped with a feeling of emptiness, and I found myself inexplicably yearning for my old state of total submission. I thought of my other three fellow captives, pictured them back at the compound, and wanted desperately to be with them again.

  The president’s urgent hands on my clothing distracted me from my longing. He was fumbling under my jacket, unbuckling my trousers, unzipping them and easing them down over my hips. They clung around my safari boots, and he would not be able to get them off unless he removed my footwear first. But already he had pushed me to my knees, and then forward, so that my hands rested in the dry dust. I felt his fingers as he dragged my white knickers down, leaving them to cling around my thighs. I felt vulnerable, my pale rump exposed to the burning sun, the loosened clothing tight around me like bonds.

  He was kneeling behind me, and I glanced over my shoulder to see what he was doing. He fumbled at his fly, hauled out his thick penis, spearing up from his groin. The dome was slimy with emission as he guided it into my buttock cleft. I felt the cold smears and tensed, lifting my bottom slightly as his prick nosed into the soft valley, and located the dewy soft lips of my sex at the base of the divide. A thumb and forefinger prised me open, and he pushed into me, so slowly that I shivered as I savoured every centimetre of the inexorable penetration.

  Grunting, my head down, my red hair sweeping the dust between my spread hands, I thrust my bottom back against his ramming bulk, impaling myself, and he began the rhythmic driving, his huge frame fitting over my curving shape. His left hand crept round my hip and his fingers played through the damp tendrils of my pubes, then found the uppermost folds of my labia, teased and rolled them. A pad slid under their spongy tissue, stretched the slippery skin until my clit began to pulse with the force of the excitement coursing through me. ‘Oh!’ I sobbed, rocking furiously, buffeting my buttocks onto the slabs of his thighs. ‘I’m coming!’ I wailed, threshing so that he had to hold me tight and pin me against him in the frenzied jerks of my climax.

  My head dipped, my brow rested on the ground, in the dust, and I felt the heaving mass of him fold over me while his weapon screwed mercilessly to my very centre. I whimpered with relief at the surging flood of his coming inside me.

  That evening Koloba shared the spacious bath with me, dismissing Awina with a f
rankly lecherous wink. ‘I will attend to Memsa’ab Moira tonight,’ he grinned. ‘And you must call me Elias, that is my name,’ he told me, when the maid had left us alone together.

  ‘Dress carefully for dinner,’ Elias instructed me when we finally managed to prise ourselves apart and dry ourselves. ‘We have a distinguished guest. No less a person than the British ambassador himself.’

  So this was it! Now things were really moving, and could never be the same again. I felt sick with conflicting emotions and nerves, and had to screw my courage to its utmost to force myself to walk down that imposing staircase to the reception. I had heeded Koloba’s instructions; wearing an off the shoulder full-length evening gown, severely cut to mould my shapely figure, in the deepest of burgundies. With Awina’s help I had brushed my hair until it glowed lustrously and hung in a haloing cloud of richness about my face and shoulders. I made no attempt to pin it up or restrain it, and I had my reward when I saw the admiring looks of the assembled crowd in the dining room. Even the patrician features of Sir Gordon Wills, trained in diplomacy as he was, could not disguise a glance of appreciation as I was introduced to him. His voice was rich, like a well-matured brandy, soothing, and warm, and I felt my tummy respond to it.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Kinsella,’ he crooned, ‘you look absolutely lovely, my dear. Quite amazing, after all you’ve been through.’

  Thereafter the evening seemed to unfold in a somewhat surreal manner; there were no other women present, and those gathered for dinner were only a few of the president’s closest aides. I was a British subject, and here was the representative of my government, sitting at my side sharing the table with the man who was responsible for keeping me and others, including my husband, prisoner. With such thoughts confusing me it was hard even to follow the polite conversations going on all around the table.